


Fools' Night

by DachOsmin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coercion, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Identity Porn, M/M, Public Sex, ToT: Chocolate Box, Voyeurism, elves behaving badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: The elf quirked his lips in mirth. "An elf you are not, and I am glad of it." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down Faramir’s spine. “All creatures have their own delights, the race of men included.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



Faramir hovered at the edge of the feast, wishing desperately to be elsewhere. The halls of Rivendell were beautiful, to be sure. And with the shadow of war no longer hanging over the land, the elves had spared no expense in their autumn celebrations. Hordes of fair youths and maidens flitted before him under the lights of the candelabras, each dressed in the finest brocades, each wearing an autumn mask. 

A sight so breathtaking he was lucky to witness it, and yet he felt ill made in comparison: one man in a room of elves, one goose in a flock of swans. In truth, if he had not been representing the White City as an envoy, he might have retreated to his chambers already, well appointed as they were.

“Are you not enjoying yourself?”

Faramir started, turning to face the speaker.

The elf was broad of chest and fair of hair. He stood a head taller than Faramir himself, the long lines of his body draped in grey samite. His features were hidden by a half mask of raw silver, the twisting patterns glittering in the light of the lanterns. Faramir could just make out the glint of clever eyes behind the mask.

Already feeling ill at ease amidst the grace of the elves, such a splendid creature made him wish to run and hide. "I was sent to make a good impression on the lords of Rivendell, I dare not indulge."

Silver tilted his head, a small smile playing about his lips. "What lords? I see only masks.”

Faramir sighed, refusing to be taken in by the elf’s playful grin. “Lord Elrond is here, of course. And I’ve heard tell that Lord Glorfindel, who slew the balrog at Cirith Thoronath, is here as well.”

Silver chuckled at that. “I have heard of them, to be sure. And they well may be present, but I’m certain that they are dancing and drinking tonight, as are we all. If you were to join in, you would be in good company.”

As if on cue, a servant with down turned eyes materialized at Silver’s side, balancing two goblets on a platter of burnished gold. “My lord,” the elf murmured. 

Faramir picked one up, eying the shifting liquid hesitantly.

“Tis a special philter we drink only on Fool’s Night,” Silver explained, picking up the other goblet and sending the servant away with a wave of his hand.

Faramir raised the goblet with hesitance and took a small sip, allowing the draught to swirl in his mouth before swallowing. It was lighter than he was used to, none of the fiery burn of the ales Gondorian hosts favored. This was softer, fruiter. And yet it set Faramir’s heart racing and kindled a fire in his stomach in a very peculiar way. He found he liked it, and took another sip.

Beside him, Silver chuckled. “It heartens me to see you indulging in our customs. Now if only we could find you a mask as well.”

Faramir eyed the masks on the passing elves. “Why do you wear them?”

“On Fool’s night all are masked as things they are not. The highest lord may dress the part of a guardsmen, and a commoner, a king. Stripped of rank, anonymous, we discover who we truly are.”

“I see,” said Faramir, not seeing at all. He scanned the masks of the other courtiers: beasts real and fanciful, trees and flowers, suns and moons. Silver’s mask was plainer than any of the others; it stood out amidst a riot of color and shape.

Silver smiled at his unspoken question. “They call me golden, for my hair,” he explained.

Golden it was, burnished sunlight pouring over his shoulders like water. Faramir’s fingers twitched. Would it feel like silk to the touch, or velvet? He was overcome by the urge to curl his hands in the elf’s tresses, pull the elf up to him-

“You look a bit flushed,” Silver said. There was a grin in his voice, and perhaps something darker. “Are you well?”

“Quite well, my lord,” Faramir managed to mumble, looking anywhere but at Silver. “It is only that the drink of your people is stronger than I am used to.”

“I owe you an apology then.” Silver moved behind him and laid his hands on Faramir’s shoulders, as if to steady him. “Tis a potent brew; we drink it only on Fool’s Night. It can have… effects,” he murmured.

Faramir, trying in vain to fight the effect of Silver’s presence behind him, could only nod.

Silver tightened his grip on Faramir’s shoulders. “I would hate for you to overexert yourself. Shall we sit down?”

Faramir’s cheeks, already flushed from drink, burned darker in humiliation. To be treated like a fainting maiden or a youth too foolish to know his own limits, and by an elf, no less. “My lord, I am a knight of Gondor, I-“

Silver tutted. “I do not doubt your valor, nor your stamina. But as a host I would be remiss in my duties if I did not tend to your needs, and I would not risk the ire of the lords of Rivendell if you were to come to harm.”

Faramir considered this, and considered how the lords of Rivendell might view him if he were to collapse in a drunken heap in the midst of their banquet hall. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “I suppose a chair would not be remiss.”

Silver peered over the heads of the crowd, frowning. “If a chair can be had, that is. I believe they may have been removed for the dancing.” He brightened suddenly. “Come, lean against me. I’ll keep you upright.”

A very forward gesture, or it would have been in Gondor. Perhaps things were different here. “Are you sure-“

But Silver was already enveloping Faramir in his arms, pulling him backward to rest against his chest. So close that Faramir could feel Silver’s breath on the tips of his ears, could feel his heartbeat reverberate against his back. He counted to ten, trying desperately to remind himself that things were done differently amongst the elves. He was not, alas, very successful.

“People are staring.” He was intimately aware of each gaze dragging over him, could feel each one like heat on his skin.

“So surprised!” Silver chuckled. “‘Tis no mystery though: you are fair to behold, and you wear no mask to dissuade them.”

"Grant me a fair elven face then," he murmured, fighting the urge to hide his face in Silver’s robes "for an elf I am not, and I feel ill shaped and awkward next to so many of your kind."

Silver quirked his lips in mirth. "An elf you are not, and I am glad of it." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down Faramir’s spine. “All creatures have their own delights, the race of men included.”

He was kind to say so, but Faramir still felt like an ungainly duckling among swans. Perhaps his incredulity showed on his face, for Silver shook his head with a small smile, like an indulgent parent explaining something simple to a willful child. “I see you do not believe me. Very well, I shall enumerate them.”

“I don’t think-”

“First,” Silver said, clasping Faramir's hand in his own and pulling it up to his lips. "Your blood runs quicker and hotter than ours." 

Faramir watched, transfixed, as Silver’s tongue darted out from beneath his mask to wet the hollow of his wrist. Faramir’s skin turned cool from the touch of moisture; he shivered, feeling his own heart beating in the veins nestled there.

A low groan tore itself from his lips, his breath coming heavy and labored through Silver's ministrations. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see dozens of glittering masks turning at the sound, as though transfixed.

Silver's chuckle was warm against his neck. "And there: no elf could make such a sound."

“I-I doubt that very much,” he managed to gasp. “For your people are beautiful in all things: it stands to reason that they would be as lovely in pleasure as any man.”

Silver hummed in thought, the vibrations thrumming against Faramir’s back, quickening the fire stirring in his loins. “You need not base such things on reason, look yonder and judge with your own eyes.”

For a moment Faramir knew not what he meant; the haze of the drink and the heat of Silver’s touch were a heady combination, robbing him of any sense beyond the kiss of skin and the heat in his belly. But then Silver pointed across the room, and Faramir near forgot how to breathe.

Two male elves kissed ardently before the great hearth. The taller one wore a great horned owl mask, the shorter, the face of a doe. They knelt on an amber bearskin, their limber forms silhouetted by the flames of the fire behind them. They were entwined so fixedly in each other’s arms, planting kiss after open mouthed kiss, that Faramir could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. 

And then the Owl reached to his lover’s collar and began to slip the buttons of his robe from their holes, one by one, revealing a smooth column of neck and chest, flushed a pale pink. As Faramir watched, the robe slipped from the Doe’s shoulders entirely, pooling into silk on the rug around him. The elf wore nothing underneath: his hardening cock was on full display to the rest of the hall. Murmurs swirled around them, the watching elves’ lips parted and cheeks flushed. With desire, he noted, rather than any hint of surprise.

Faramir swallowed roughly, unable to drag his eyes away from the spectacle. This was wrong- it was indecent, and no honorable man would take pleasure in such obscenity- yet he could feel his cock hardening against the cloth of his breeches, regardless of his shame. Torn between shock and arousal, he looked helplessly on.

Meanwhile, the Owl had wrapped his fingers in the Doe’s long tresses and forced his lover’s head down into the bearskin rug. With his other hand, he palmed his cock once, twice, before kneeling behind the Doe, lining up his cock with the Doe’s entrance.

He breached the Doe in one smooth stroke. The Doe let out a low sigh, the sound muffled in the rug. They held that position for one breath: a frozen tableau of marble skin cast golden in the firelight. And then the Owl began to move, slowly at first and then faster.

Faramir felt himself swelling, unsure where to look, at the join of their bodies, at the ecstasy of their mouths, at the hungry eyes of their audience. His skin was hot all over, but especially in the places where it sat flush with Silver’s body, the thin fabrics of their robes a paltry barrier, easily removed. He was intimately aware of every shift the elf made, every flex of his muscles and touch of his limbs.

“I think the sight pleases you,” Silver whispered. “I think it pleases you very much indeed.” 

Faramir held himself perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, as he felt Silver’s hand skim the side of his hip, fingers dancing over the swell of his thigh to dip lower, touch his shamefully hard length-

The enormity of the situation hit him like a ball of lust and humiliation, and he jerked back from Silver’s touch- what was he thinking? A knight of Gondor, come undone like a tavern whore. what would Aragorn think, to see such wantonness? What would Boromir think? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the judgement in their eyes, but all he could imagine was the trembling of the Doe’s thighs as he was breached and pushed to the floor.

Silver pulled his hand back and regarded him with a thoughtful gaze. "I had thought you enjoyed the touch of other men. Was I mistaken?"

Faramir swallowed roughly. He’d found men fair before. But none of his furtive encounters in lower city taverns had been anything like this. Public, exposed, laid bare. Now he saw the appeal of the masks, that his desire might not be written plain across his face for all to see. "N-not mistaken, my lord.”

Silver offered him a teasing smile at that. “And yet you recoiled. Is it me, then? Am I displeasing to you?”

Faramir almost laughed out loud, how could Silver even think such a thing? This kingly creature with hair like sunlight, displeasing? “You are- you are very pleasing to me.” He flushed, acutely aware of his cock straining against the fabric of his breeches. “Yet I am to represent Gondor, and the lords of Rivendell-"

"I am sure the lords of Rivendell would be happy, to see you so honoring our customs."

“But-”

“In fact, they would surely disapprove, to see you denying what you so clearly desire.”

Trapped, as neatly as a rabbit in a snare. Faramir fell silent, unsure of whether to protest or agree, ashamed and aroused despite himself. 

He heard a moan behind. He turned, to escape Silver’s judgement or in guilty anticipation, he wasn’t sure. 

The Doe was the source of the keening. He crumpled with each of the Owl’s thrusts, the rigid grip of the Owl on his hips the only thing keeping him upright. His cock lay flush against his stomach, twitching at the end of each thrust, leaking precum onto his quivering thighs and the bearskin below. His mouth hung slack, each cry wrung from him rather than consciously voiced. Through the slits of his mask Faramir could make out the sheen of tears.

As Faramir watched, the Doe’s mouth opened in a wordless cry, the sound swallowed by the carpet. His body grew taut and began to jerk like a marionette as strings of seed painted his belly white. As he fell limp in spent pleasure, the Owl began to thrust erratically, pistoning his cock into the Doe in an erratic rhythm. His fingers, white knuckled, had left the beginnings of bruises on his lover’s hips. His thrusts sped up until he too came to climax, pounding into the Doe, now ragdoll-limp beneath him. 

The two collapsed on the carpet in a spent embrace, seed glistening on skin in the firelight.

Like a broken spell, the frozen courtiers began to move again, turning away from the spectacle and taking up conversations again.

There were suddenly hands on his waist, hot breath on the back of his neck. “It seems the halls now lack for entertainment. Shall we put on a show?”

Faramir let out a long, guttering breath, trying to steady himself, remember his duty. “I don’t think-“

Silver cut him off, spinning him around and swallowing his words with a forceful kiss. Caught mid-sentence, Faramir’s mouth was open, defenseless. He raised his hands, to push Silver away or pull him closer, he didn’t know. The elf paid him no mind, deepening the kiss, sucking and biting at his lips with abandon. One hand knotted itself in Faramir’s hair, wrenching his head back for better access; the other snaked around Faramir’s back to pull him closer.

When he finally ended the kiss Faramir was too breathless to protest, too high on the sensation of lips against skin to speak. All he could do was pant, catching his breath as he squirmed against Silver’s body.

Silver’s eyes were wrinkled with mirth behind the slits of the mask. “You were saying something?”

“I find I can’t recall,” Faramir said faintly.

“Excellent,” said Silver, and pulled him up into another kiss.

He could feel the iron hard length of Silver’s cock jutting up against his own, could taste the elf’s hisses each time he squirmed against it. His own cock was aching, tormented by the press of his breeches but sorely in want of a firmer touch. He reached down to palm it-

“I think not,” Silver said, slapping his hand away.

Faramir let out a whine, hardly recognizing his own voice. “Please…“

Silver laughed at that, a low heady sound. “Well, if you are reduced to begging, I suppose I must help.” He pushed Faramir backward step by step; Faramir clung to his robes and followed blindly, too stunned to protest. At the third step he felt the lip of the banquet table against the back of his thighs. “What-“

Faramir smiled down at him. “I would be a poor host if I were to take you on the bare floor. Although delectable as you are, I admit I was tempted.” And with that he laid a splayed hand on Faramir’s chest, pushing him down onto the table.

The room spun, Faramir reevaluated the strength of the draught he’d been given. It seemed an unimportant question, all Faramir could focus on was the spin of the candelabras above him, the cool press of the wood below him, and Silver’s nimble hands, which were even now making quick work of his trousers. He bit back a hiss at the first touch of cool air on his legs.

And then there were fingers between his legs and a warm oil dribbling against his hole. He gasped out loud, arching of the table at the shock of the sensation.

From above him, Silver let out a dreamy sigh. “So responsive,” he mused, punctuated by a caress of Faramir’s hole. “You were made for this.”

Faramir let his head fall sideways on the table, reveling in the sensation. There was a buzzing all around him, and at length he realized it was the murmurs and groans of the crowd. They were all facing him- ringing the table in a circle of glittering masks. He saw hands palming groins, lips wet with want.

“Wait,” he gasped, trying to lift his head, “people are watching-“

“But of course,” said Silver, and pushed himself into Faramir in one smooth stroke. 

Their audience fell away at that. For Faramir, everything was reduced to this: sensation of the cock cleaving him open, filling him down to his bones. He cried out, writhing against the table, unsure whether he meant to escape or split himself further on Silver’s cock. 

He was distantly aware of Silver murmuring gentle shushing noises the way one might to a spooked mare. He felt hands spidering over his nipples, thumbing at his open lips, palming at his leaking cock. Perhaps they belonged to Silver. Perhaps not.

Silver had begun to move, gripping Faramir’s bare thighs with bruising force as he leaned back, then thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt. Faramir couldn’t help but cry out at each new intrusion, the world breaking and remaking itself around the join of their bodies with each thrust.

His hands scrabbled for purchase on the polished wood of the table. Above him, Silver tutted. "If you scratch the mahogany I shall have to restrain you. And perhaps leave you so tied after I take my pleasure. And I am sure that the others would not be able to help themselves, and would take you again and again until the sun comes up."

Such a threat should have horrified him. And yet he almost begged for the elf to do it, to leave him here to be despoiled by each of the elven men who even now eyed him like hunting hounds might a hare.

He had no words that could encompass his shame, he could only answer in agonized groans and a high pitched keening he hardly recognized. His own cock had begun to jerk, and on the next thrust he felt himself falling over the edge, pinioned between the eyes of his audience and Silver’s cock, a helpless ragdoll to their desires.

As the world whited out amidst the gaze of alcohol and pleasure-pain, he felt Silver lean over him, whisper hot against his ear-

“Captain Faramir, you have shown your quality- and it is the the very highest.”

 

Faramir woke at noon the next day, curled up in the guest bedroom he’d been given, clad in a silken sleep shift he had no memory of owning. 

He blinked once, twice, letting his eyes adjust to the autumn light streaming through the windows, uncertain if the night had been real or a figment of a fever dream. And yet the soreness in his body, the bruising on his hips, the swollen ache of his lips all lingered. Real, then. 

But the sort of waking dream that had no place in the light of day. He swallowed roughly, hobbling out of bed in search of his clothes. His shameful night of debauchery was over. Now was the time to speak with the lords Elrond and Glorfindel as an envoy, to thank them for their hospitality, to do all the things he’d been sent to do. 

And if he secretly treasured and guiltily recalled that night in the long nights to come, that was his own business. His, and the elf with the golden hair and silver mask.

**Author's Note:**

> *Shows up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks*
> 
> Sorry! I was last-minute-attacked by your letter, and before I knew it Faramir was getting fucked on a table. Happens to the best of us. This is, uh, not all that canon compliant but hopefully it is kink compliant, at least? In any case, happy Halloween!


End file.
